


Our Bones are Poisoned

by Shiny and Zinc (Adira_Tyree)



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Sexual Content, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Mild medical content referenced, Scars and Scarification, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:54:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4080367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adira_Tyree/pseuds/Shiny%20and%20Zinc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting sprayed with molten metal had never been how he'd intended to become shiny and chrome, and he'd never expected to become shiny and chrome before ascending to Valhalla. He had hoped to become chrome in some magnificent chase out along the Fury Road, but there wasn't anything to say he can't become more chrome than he already is...</p><p>[Previously titled "Galvanized"] [rated mature for now, possibly explicit later][on hiatus]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Z" (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> [Click here for notes on my lore additions and my Warboys!](http://adira-tyree.tumblr.com/post/120916447587/notes-on-places-and-things-im-adding-into-my-mad)

       Most Warboys that had bits of metal in them had them installed there intentionally. The rest of them had them put there either in combat or in wrecks out on raids or battles on the Fury Road. And then there was Galvanized – Z.

       Before the accident, he’d just been a Warpup – no real name, just sort of a “hey you” and a command to do this or that. He’d had a name when he was little, but he’d traded it to Immortan Joe to be a Warpup. That hadn’t really been his idea, but his brother told him they were going to do it. “Da told us to,” Snick said. “He told us, so we’re gonna do it. It’s his dying words. We’re gonna do it.” Z didn’t know back then what ‘dying’ really meant; he was too young to understand it when their parents both died from the same plague of nightfevers.

       But he grew up knowing that Immortan Joe had given them everything they’d needed only asking for loyal service in return. Not a bad deal. When a god gives you life, who are you to reject his requests in return?

       Z had always wanted to be a Warboy. Didn’t care enough about cars to be a Black Thumb, didn’t have the mind to be one of Organic’s assistants, didn’t want get stuck in the bays fixing broken things, or in the Citadel as a Guard. About the only thing worse would be working with the plants. He wanted the wind in his hair, wanted to ride the Fury Road right into Valhalla without looking back.

       But you couldn’t _just_ train to be a Lancer.

       So he took up work with the metalworkers. It was almost like fixing broken things, but more often it was like making them. Taking the husk of an old car and turning it into something new, shiny, chrome. A WarMachine with wheels and spikes, that roared with the fury of an impending doom.

       He took to making the steering wheels. Not the actual wheel itself, but the decoration. It was his job to have them ready for new Warboys and old alike - for what is a driver without his wheel? They were all too often destroyed in wrecks, ones that didn’t always take their passengers with them to Scrapheap or Valhalla. It was a creative job, one that took thinking. Took going out and finding little things, sometimes big things.

       Z remembered when his boss had made the beautiful wheel for Furiosa’s WarRig when she became an Imperator, carefully carved and shaped just so. A masterpiece in metal that had taken weeks of careful work. Z was convinced that unless the WarRig was destroyed, that was one of the only wheels to survive any real length of time.

       Only, as time went on, Z began to notice that Warboys would go to extreme lengths to keep their wheel in pristine condition. He’d heard of, and eventually even seen, Warboys more willing to lose limbs than let their wheel take damage. It was their power, their status, their _literal driving force_. Having to replace it was excruciating – like trying to replace a sibling or a partner.

       It was a slow job, but he had the skill for it. Fueled with stories and violent imagery, he could easily find pieces in Scrapheap for them. His job title meant that he had a free pass at all materials not already claimed by the RepairBoys. The types of things he would be looking for were often much smaller anyway. Bits of bone and skulls, doll heads, bits of tubing, little scraps of metal, chunks of glass. Could be anything. Whatever he needed next he’d know when he saw.

       It had been easy work for him. He could even come up with the designs and then have younger Warpups do the actual work for him, if he wanted. Gave him time to wander and the Warpup got both practice and recognition for his hand in the design, which suited Z just fine. The less time he had to spend stuck inside the workshops, the better.

       When he had spare moments, he practiced lancing in Scrapheap – being a restricted space meant he’d have some semblance of privacy there. Three nights a week or more he’d spend down in the fighting pits. Not every night meant a fight for him, but watching still gave him ideas of what not to do. The doing could be improvised; the not-doing needed to be carefully analyzed and committed to memory. With his head filled with Haki’s war stories, he envisioned himself bringing home bounties of wealth to the Citadel, being congratulated and honored by Immortan Joe himelf, dying glorious deaths in service to Him that Haki would tell to Warboys and Warpups for years to come.

       So when he was officially promoted to the status of Warboy and chosen by Haki to be his Lancer, it was like the continuation of an ongoing dream. A bloody dream, but one he loved none the less.

       Lancing, it turned out, wasn’t always adventures and glory, though. It was days of down-time and waiting-out the weather, hoping to be chosen for tasks and not getting angry when you weren’t. It wasn’t personal, just the fact that some jobs needed less Warboys than others – and it was better to keep them in rotation than to keep choosing the same ones over and over.

       He kept working for the same old boss making steering wheels. It gave him something to fill in the downtime. His friends were few, really just his brother Snick and Snick’s Lancer Garg, and Haki too, of course. They were often enough busy with work of their own, but the group could entertain each other at night and well into the morning. Haki was close friends and cousins with the Organic Mechanic, so sometimes he and Haki would go down to the ChopShop to spend an hour or two with the medic. One of the Green Thumbs had taken a liking to Z, and sometimes traded fresh foods for a quick fuck somewhere out of sight (because Cel didn’t want anyone to find out about that submissive streak that had kept him from becoming a Warboy for so long).

       Then the accident happened.

He hated calling it that, but no one was willing to call it something better. Z wanted to think of it as a test sent by the Gods. Most people tended to just think of it as a minor explosion that had resulted in the deaths of several good metalworkers, along with a few wheel workers, and the hellish scrubbing of the floor of a very large bay.

       The WheelBarrow was tucked away at the back of one of the larger BodyShop bays. If the BodyShop was in use, it got hotter than the Engines in there, but it could have been worse overall. The only time that bay got used was when they needed to spray down a newly built car with various protective coatings – meaning it had to be well ventilated. In a way, the WheelBarrow was one of the only places in their spire that had windows. Sitting in toxic fumes from chemicals, molten metal, and endless paints would have sent far more men to Scrapheap than was practical.

       None of them had ever really explained to him just _how_ the accident had occurred. Just said “an explosion” and something about a problem with some of the equipment and that it was all fixed now. After a while, Z decided that the how didn’t matter quite so much as the result. The fact of the matter was that his back was filled effectively filled with smooth shrapnel, and that shrapnel wasn’t likely to be going anywhere.

       “Nah,” Z could remember Organic saying to Haki over him, “that’s gonna have to stay right there, right where it is. Fused to his skin, it has. Maybe even to bones. Nah, I touch that and he’s as good as a corpse. You want thissin to live, we leave that right there.”

       Organic had guessed that some of it would eventually come out on its own. The vast majority were just little beads that had clung to his skin, and had eventually come off like fat, silver scabs. Other patches, not so much. Big, thick patches like the one that clung to the bone of his shoulder-blade, having melted right through the skin and maybe even into the bone itself. Those were there for good.

       Even if he’d wanted them out, it likely couldn’t be done without simply causing more damage. They’d need to melt the metal or saw through it – and there just wasn’t room to cut it out.

       The largest was the patch on his shoulder-blade. After that, two smaller patches clung to ribs not far beneath it. A fourth patch, the smallest, was dangerously near his spine, but didn’t seem to have caused any damage yet. (“You’ll just have to go to Valhalla before it causes you any trouble,” Haki had said with a devilish grin. “That shouldn’t be too hard, working with me, eh?”) The others, of which there were several, were tiny drips and spikes that pressed like nails through his skin.

       For the most part, he couldn’t feel it. The big patches had burned so much of his skin that most of the nerves had sizzled away. The metal had spread across it to form a new layer of skin in those places, only sticking in to the bones in a few places where the spray was thickest against him. Away with the skin went many nerves, meaning that at least there were parts of his back that would never feel pain again. Other places had only gotten the tiniest misting, by comparison, leaving his nerves intact and screaming _pain_ at him.

       Some of it dulled down over the months after the accident. Other parts only seemed to get worse. The front side of his shoulder and his chest opposite the larger pieces, usually hurt with a dull pain no matter what he was (or wasn’t) up to. Somehow a throbbing pain always bothered him in his left hand, even though the injuries were almost entirely on his right side.

       The infections were almost worse than the burns themselves. Stinking, bubbling things that made him glad he couldn’t see the wounds, stuff that even wrinkled Organic’s nose from the sheer stench of the rotting skin. With the infections came fever, fever that heated the metal in his skin that heated his skin in turn in a vicious cycle. They’d only kept him alive by pouring cool water over his skin at all hours of the day and night to keep the fever from cooking him. The constant bathing kept his sores clean as well, and after a long two months of pain and delirium, Z walked out of the ChopShop a new man.

       He wasn’t sure if it had been the will of the Gods or just Haki’s constant story-telling that kept him going. “Think of all the great shit I’ll be able to tell the Pups in a few years,” Haki said with a grin, “about a man made of metal tearing up the Fury Road alongside me! How bullets could bounce off his skin, how he had to coat his skin in oil to keep it shiny and chrome.”

       Z hadn’t at first fully appreciated the possibilities for his new “thick skin.” The metal would hold up far better over time than his skin would, meaning that the possibility of adding some sort of etched tattoo to it would be not only less dangerous (the metal wouldn’t get an infection from sleeping in the filth of the bunks, after all), but more effective.

       Garg was fascinated by this idea, and though he couldn’t do the work himself, he frequently offered up new designs to Z that fit the four largest patches. Z hadn’t chosen one yet, but his eyes kept getting drawn back to an anatomical sketch that simply matched the bones beneath the metal.

       Snick, though grateful that his little brother was still alive, was beside himself with anger. Rumor had it he’d used the excessive strength in his one arm to take out his frustrations on some of the metalworkers to try to find the man who’d caused the accident.

       When Z asked, he refused to talk about it.

       Snick didn’t like it when he came off as overly-protective of anyone – it was too easy to use that kind of thing against someone. Though the Warboys themselves were blooded brothers, the rest of the Citadel’s inhabitants could be deadly if it might gain them an advantage. Bringing down a Warboy gave the gift of status – a rare commodity in the wasteland, one worth dying in search of.

       So Z stopped asking. Snick kept sulking and making threats. Haki kept inventing stories from the tiniest details of their lives. Garg kept making art. Z kept making steering wheels. And every once in a while they’d all go out and kill something, or drag it home to use instead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if this chapter is edited enough or not, hard to say. I don't quite have a grip on the citadel yet, so I apologize if the setting isn't explained enough. If there's something you want to hear more about, in terms of setting I mean, please mention it in the comments so I can edit it in and write it into new chapters. It'd help a lot!

       The repair bays were always cramped after a raiding party came back in. Sometimes Z just wanted to wait until it all cleared out, until it was just their car and maybe one or two more, but Haki would never stand for it. It meant risking not having the old girl ready to go out on the Road if something historic happened. So every time they came back in from a raid, their first stop was the repair bays. Being the first in the raiding pack also meant they usually got stuck all the way at the back of the bay, where there was the least ventilation and the most built up grease and smog.

       But at least it was better than going to Organic's Chop Shop.

       The moment Organic was willing to let Z leave his care, Z was out the door. He’d been cooped up sleeping on his gut for too many weeks waiting to see if the metal in his back would work its way loose. Once convinced it was staying put, Organic grumbled at him about keeping an eye on himself for signs of zinc poisoning, but let him leave. It was, without a doubt, the best thing to happen to Z in weeks.

       There wasn’t any question where Haki would be, either. If there was nothing else for him to work on, the giant Warboy would be found in a repair bay somewhere. It didn’t matter if the car had an issue or not; he’d be trying to upgrade this or fine-tune that, or even just sitting around with it for no real reason at all.

       It didn’t take long to find him. Their car was easy enough to spot, mostly because it had the least number of additions to it, and Haki’s massive legs sticking out from under the engine. While Z had always loved cars that were decorated with spikes and skulls and trinkets of sorts, he agreed with his driver that their own car – all sharp angles and low to the ground like a snake – didn’t need any of it. The beast was intimidating without extra fangs.

       Z crept up next to the car, trying not to alert Haki to his presence. It wasn’t often he got to surprise him; he took every chance at it he found.

       A hand shot out from under the car, reaching around blindly for a wrench that was lying in the shadow cast by a fat front tire. As soon as Haki’s blackened fingers landed on it, he snatched it away under the car.

       “The fuck gave you the idea for those tattoos anyway, Hak?” Z asked, cocking his head to the side. He tried leaning back against the door of the car, putting the weight on his bad shoulder, but flinched away at the bizarre feeling it sent through him. He had to learn to tolerate pressure on it, even if he hated it. It felt like there were bones outside his body somehow.

       “You want the real truth, or an interesting one?” Haki’s voice was muffled as it drifted out from under the car. A few days ago he’d mentioned wanting to work on something important under there – engine, transmission, turbo lines, Z couldn’t be bothered to remember, it was all the same to him – but Z knew that Haki would always be able to toss out a half-way decent story. Even if he wasn’t really paying attention. He found that most often Haki was putting together his stories while working on the car anyway.

       “Real truth…” Z grinned. The expression lingered on one side of his face even after long forgotten by the other. He never could surprise Haki, even if he tried.

       “Same sort of thing I’m doing now, really. Working on the car.” He slid out from under the car, looking up at the younger Warboy, holding up his hands. “Got oil all over my hands and it ran right down my arms. Thought it’d make a good ink. Told Organic, got drunk, and gave him my skin. Woke up with a hangover to beat all hell and couldn’t even move my hands to piss straight. At least Organic had thought ahead and taken off my pants for me.” He grinned, showing off his yellowing teeth, then slid back under the car. “Got the feeling back in them not much later, wasn’t too bad. Except when I had to do anything.”

       Z smirked, shaking his head. “How long ago was it?” In the back of his mind he wondered how long it would be before his zinc was just another body mod to him. Days? Weeks? Years? He suppressed a shudder and lowered his gaze to the floor.

       “Oh, dunno. I was probably about your age, pretty young, yeah?” Haki slid back under the car again. “Maybe 20 or so. It was after I turned Warboy, anyway, so about 15 years. Probably a bit less.”

       The concept always sent Z’s head spinning. 15 years ago he’d been a four-year-old boy living a quiet life with his parents and eight-year-old brother. Haki was almost twice Z’s age, the oldest Warboy he even spoke to.

       “You really that old?” Z pushed, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in his arm. _Just ghost pain, get over it._ “You really 33?”

       “Yep. Wish I could make that one a bit more interesting. Just haven’t died yet.”

       This still never made sense to Z. So many Warboys threw themselves towards Valhalla whenever the gates were open to them. Haki just kept ignoring the call of the heroes, even with the Valkyries’ prodding. “Why not?” he asked, though the answer was always the same. Haki was very patient with him.

       “Not interested. Too much left to terrorize here first. I’ll find the right time to die someday, same as you. Til then? Too busy sending Buzzards and Rock Riders and Sandsnakes to their graves.” One of his tools clanked to the ground, followed quickly by the sound of another being picked up from the stone.

       Giving up for the time being, Z stood up straight again. He wanted to rub the aching skin on his back but knew from experience it was a bad idea. All that did was tear it if he rubbed too hard. Unsure of how long Haki would be, he sat down beside the car and closed his eyes to wait.

       “Back bothering you?” Haki asked after a few minutes of silence.

       “Yeah.”

       “You’d figure by now you’d be used to it.” His voice wasn’t unsympathetic, even if his words seemed it.

       “Yeah.”

       “You could always go get something new from Garg to distract yourself with,” Haki suggested, attempting to sound helpful but not able to fully contain his laughter.

       “Shithead,” Z said with a quiet laugh. “Full of bright ideas. One thing hurts, you tell me to scar up another. Surprised you haven’t told me to cut my back off yet.”

       “Well you could always replace it with some sturdy leather.”

       “Why leather?”

       “Well,” Haki laughed, “I was going to say metal, but it seemed a bit insensitive.”

       “Shithead,” Z repeated as he shook his head, a half-grin playing on his cheek. “Really? Engine oil made you do it?” he asked, shaking his head.

       There was silence from under the car for a moment while Haki made the jump back in their conversation. “Really. Honest truth on that, this time. Didn’t really think about the fact that my war clay would cover a lot of it up. It always wears off my hands anyway though.”

       The stark, thick white war clay that Haki wore was much brighter than Z’s. Where Haki seemed to be turning himself into living salt with it, Z tried to keep his as thin as possible. It had taken years of failed attempts to find a ratio of water to powder that would actually stick to him, rather than flaking off half a day later, but it was light and comfortable. It didn’t turn back into sludge if he started to sweat, either.

       Z heard another creeper slide under the car from the other side of it and saw a second shadow join his driver’s on the ground.

       “Haki.” The voice was flat, annoyed, and vaguely feminine.

       “Rippa!” Haki said excitedly. “What can I do for you?”

       “Heard you were looking for parts. I might have pulled in another Challenger yesterday. What’s it worth to you?” Her voice was monotone and still alien to Z. She’d only been a driver for half a year, and Z had spent a full third of that time stuck in the ChopShop.

       “I could kiss you,” Haki said, sounding delighted.

       “Please don’t.”

       Haki made little kissy noises, setting down his tools again. Z could practically hear Ripper rolling her eyes as she slid back out from under the car. Haki followed her, sliding under and out the side she’d exited from as well.

       “Well, what do you want? I’ve got stories, hair, and a half-dead Lancer. Any of that enticing?” Haki towered over her, grinning madly. Somehow, Ripper was forever unimpressed and unamused. She crossed her arms over her bare ribs, looking up at him with a painfully bored expression.

       “Fresh food and a quiet place to eat it,” she said, wasting no time. “Yes or no. I’ve got a Rev-Head snooping around trying to claim parts already.”

       Haki frowned. Before he opened his mouth, Z answered for him.

       “Done. When?”

       Cel had been trying to find him for weeks apparently, and it wasn’t unlikely he’d already know Z was up and about.

       “As soon as possible.”

       “Where?”

       Ripper started walking away towards another repair bay. “I bunk under your brother. I’m there most nights. I’ll bring your car over now. You cross me and I’ll slit your throat.” Her voice dropped lower and she muttered something about ‘shit-head revs,’ not sounding any more or less annoyed than when she was talking to Haki.

       Haki turned on Z, looking like he’d seen Valhalla and his favorite car was in it and waiting for him. “I could kiss you,” he repeated, arms open as he stalked towards Z slowly.

       “Please don’t,” Z parroted with a smirk. “Gotta find Cel.” He jogged out and down the corridor, noticing quickly that he’d been ignoring the pain in his shoulder entirely. The realization was both gratifying and painful. The skin against the metal throbbed, still riddled with half-healed burns and shifting blisters. Organic hadn’t admitted it, but it Z was pretty sure the medic had no idea whether or not the blistering would ever stop.

       While finding the food Ripper had wanted would likely prove simple, Z wasn’t so sure he’d be able to find somewhere quiet for her to enjoy it. He didn’t even know what really constituted “quiet” in her mind. Quiet wasn’t something easily found in the spires, not until the latest hours of the night and earliest of the morning. On a whim, he wandered towards the center of the spire. The most likely place for quiet to be found would be one of the watchtowers, but it depended on who was taking the night watch.

       Pushing through pipe-lined halls and past the center bunk-hall, he cut through the crowded atrium and towards the chore-boards. Lists of dozens of names and times were carefully written out for duties for each of the tasks managed by Warboys daily. They were hard to read in the dim, flickering light, but Z’s eyes were better than most. Quickly scanning the watchtower roster, his eyes caught on a pair of names: _West High-Point – sunset – Snick, Garg._

       It couldn’t have turned out more perfect.

       With that in mind, he started the trek up to the greenhouses to find Cel – he had a trade to make.

 

* * *

 

       Despite the pain his metal caused him, Z was quickly growing fond of watching Warpups scatter at the sight of him. He could hear their whispers behind him as he passed, see their wide-eyed awe and disbelief when other Pups explained it to them: _that’s the Warboy the gods made chrome._

       He suspected Haki had something to do with it. While to his face Haki would never suggest something any more grand than a terrible accident, Z knew the Fabler Warboy was convinced it was a gift from the gods. That maybe Thor himself had kept him alive for some greater battle to come later. Z could only hope it to be true. The idea of getting back out even for a practice session made his skin tingle with anticipation.

       Another Warboy sulked down the dimly lit stone hall, walking away in the opposite direction. He sneered at Z and Z growled back, but he didn’t have the energy to put any real bite into it. The other Boy laughed shaking his head. “Don’t know what that little fuck sees in you if you can’t be bothered to fight back.”

       Z opened his mouth to retaliate, but the Boy just walked away. Snarling with newfound energy, Z whipped around, threw him to the floor by his neck and punched him square in the jaw. Z could feel his back tearing open around the metal shards, hot blood dribbling down his spine.

       “Get the fuck out of here,” Z muttered, kicking him in the side before continuing on towards the greenhouses. He didn’t care if the Warboy tried to follow him; most weren’t even allowed near the greenhouses anyway, and any that were didn’t dare start trouble inside them and risk being banned.

       At the end of the hall, two of the larger Green-Thumbs (not that any of them were by any means _big_ , most were smaller than Z himself) looked him over. One raised an eyebrow but said nothing as Z walked between them and inside.

       He closed his eyes, breathing deep in the fresh air and reveling in the light of the sky filtering down through the glass above; being cooped up in the Chop Shop had left him sun-starved. It was hot and humid in the greenhouses, but the air was cleaner than anywhere else in the spire, and the sun filtered down through the glass-domed roof. Row after row of plants hung in buckets and pipes suspended from supports near the ceiling, with Green-Thumbs spritzing and preening them tenderly.

       Most of these plants would never be seen by Warboys. The vast majority went to the Immortan and his large family, his Breeders, and the MilkMothers. Next on the list were the Imperators, then the heads-of-staff like Organic, some was traded with Gas Town and the Bullet Farm, then the rest went to the kitchens for the Warboys. It usually meant that if a Warboy saw a green at all, it was chopped and stewed beyond recognition.

       But Green-Thumbs were a sneaky lot. Spending countless hours in the greenhouses meant they were able to sneak small quantities of fresh greenery out to trade themselves for other things. In Cel’s case, it had always been a private few moments with Z in a dark corner where they wouldn’t be disturbed too often.

       Cel was carefully spraying a plant down with water at the end of the farthest left aisle, far from any other Green-Thumbs. Seizing the opportunity, Z sped up his walk and lowered his head to stare Cel down with an intimidating glare – it always got the boy worked up.

       When Cel saw him coming, he dropped his misting can and started to back away. He tripped over his too-baggy pant-legs, but Z was already there – he shot his hand out and grabbed the smaller boy by the neck and lifted him ever-so-slightly off the ground, a growl lingering on his lips.

       “You been selling to other Warboys?” he asked, keeping his voice low in both volume and pitch. “Can’t have that. You’re mine.”

       “I didn’t! I swear it!” Cel practically squeaked past Z’s grip. “I told him! I told him I was yours and you’d be coming for me!”

       “So it only matters when I’m here?” Z tightened his grip. He’d be worried about squeezing too hard, but he knew the slighter boy wanted it that way. Still, he didn’t want to really damage him. He squeezed just a little harder for a moment, to emphasize his point and his dominance over the frail little Green-Thumb, before dropping his hand and letting Cel fall back onto his feet.

       Cel wheezed and rubbed his throat, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean–”

       “Shut up,” Z said, shoving him towards the wall behind the row of plants. “Know what you meant.”

       Stumbling over his pant-legs, Cel scrambled towards the wall, plastering his chest against it. “I’m sorry,” he whimpered, digging his fingers into the stone when Z bit down on his shoulder.

       “You’re not.” Z grabbed the boy’s hips, ignoring the pain in his back as fresh scabs pulled and blisters rubbed against metal.

       The younger boy whined in his throat, pressing back against Z’s chest. “Sorry,” he muttered again. Z almost laughed that Cel was apologizing for not being sorry enough.

       “Need something fresh. Good. More than usual. You got any for me?” He reached around the boy’s hips and started undoing belt buckles as he spoke. Of course Z needed something to give to Ripper, but he wanted something for himself as well. The fresh greens were food from the gods, filed with healing magic, and he could use a little of it himself after all the stress his body had been through.

       Without a word, Cel nodded, whimpering when Z carelessly pressed a hand to his mouth. Cel closed his eyes still clawing at the wall.

       “Good. Be quiet.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not totally happy with this chapter, but I gotta get working on some other writing again so here we go! It's had a bit of editing done but not much, feel free to point out any grievous typos or grammar issues.
> 
> [Hammerhead](http://all-doofed-out.tumblr.com/post/121262853051/hammerhead-counterweight) and [Gecko](http://all-doofed-out.tumblr.com/post/121200616131/gecko-polecat) belong to the wonderful fantastic [all-doofed-out](http://all-doofed-out.tumblr.com/)!!

       When Z made his way back down from the greenhouses, sweating and with a throbbing ache surrounding his bad shoulder, it was just about time for the dinner bell. With his pockets stuffed full of illicit green cargo, he headed straight for the mess hall, hoping he’d spot Ripper or Haki there. It was a bold move. If anyone pushed him around it could crush the greens, or they could easily be lifted from him by light fingers, but he was early enough still that the mess hall wouldn’t be too full yet if he moved quickly.

       The faster he moved, the more strange places the pain from his shoulder would travel. Pinpricks shot through his neck and the back of his head, while a dull burn built in his lower back. He tried to ignore it as best he could; Warboys didn’t complain about aches and pains. Even if the trip down to the mess hall hurt, he wouldn’t admit to it nor even slow down a little. The idea that someone might sense weakness in him… it couldn’t be allowed to happen while he was still recovering.

       Z could tell what the meal was from quite a ways away, which only added to his swelling agony – Roo Stew, again. No surprise there. It was served most nights – hearty, filling, and full of protein from the rich kangaroo meat. And more protein meant stronger Warboys meant a better army.

       If there were two things that could be counted on in a Warboy’s diet, it was Roo Stew at night and eggs in the morning. While greens, nuts, and seeds were all rare, and so typically sought after, nothing was as uncommon as bread. He’d seen Warboys killed in fights over bread – blood brothers or not – as it was only available in miniscule quantities once or twice a year. The thought of it made his mouth water, but he reminded himself that soon he’d be munching on other rare treats. Bread was out of season, but sweet corn came in a close second.

       Haki appeared to have finished up with his work early, or was still waiting on the car from Ripper, as he was sitting at a table at the far corner of the room with a small group. He could see Snick and Garg there with their backs to Z, a surprising sight considering Snick couldn’t stand Z’s driver.

       Several feet above them all, nestled into the pipes that ran near the ceiling, was a lithe little Warboy covered in bits of metal and ink. He was sitting directly above another Warboy, this one even taller than Haki, with a shiny, metal-plated skull. The larger one, Hammerhead, was seen with Haki relatively often; he was one of the rare older Warboys, and Haki had a habit of searching them out. That meant the Warboy above them all was most likely Gecko, though he wasn’t often spotted in crowded places. Haki tended to call them Hams and Sticky-Feet - the latter being a name he’d picked up from Hammerhead himself. Ace was there too, on Haki’s other side, and without his Imperator – a relatively uncommon sight as well.

       Haki was waving his arms around dramatically as all the other Warboys leaned in closer, caught up in whatever story he was telling them. As he continued the story, he was slowly rising to his feet, though Z doubt he realized he was doing it. It was part of the Fabler’s gift as a storyteller – his body acted for him while his mind was caught up in finding the right next word. When Z got a little closer, weaving between the tables, he could see that Haki’s stew was still untouched.

       “We heard the explosion all the way out on the bridges, could see the smoke,” Haki fluttered his remaining fingers towards the sky as he pretended to look up at it, “billowing out into the open air towards Nidavellir from whence it came. By Brokk’s own hand he’d been sprayed with metal, galvanized by the God of the forge himself. Half-man, half-metal. Part-Warboy, part-weapon. ” Haki banged his hand down on the table with a wide grin, watching Z as he approached. He held his hand out, palm up, to gesture towards Z as he reached the table. “And here he stands, chosen of Brokk, wearing the Dwarf’s gifts like skin.”

       Z couldn’t help but grin at his driver’s praise and enthusiasm.

       “Show them, Z,” Haki urged, “show them the blessing Brokk has given you!”

       If it had been any other man, Z would have sneered and walked away, but Haki he would indulge. He turned, holding up his arms in submission, remembering his back was likely a bloody mess but not entirely caring. Part of him wondered if Cel had dragged bloody fingerprints across his shoulders; the rest was fairly certain he had.

       “So you’re _‘Zed’_ now, are you?”

       When Z looked back over his shoulder, arms crossed while the others stared at his back, Snick had one eyebrow quirked and a half-grin like his own.

       “Seems a bit rich, eh? _Galvanized?_ ” Snick continued as he pushed around the meat in his stew bowl with a finger, then sucked the broth off it and drained the rest, leaving the meat to tear into slowly. He liked to pull at it with his teeth; it made him look downright feral, but he didn’t care. Maybe he was.

       “I think it’s great,” Ace said, standing up and leaning across the table to get a better look. “Things like that boost morale. Drivers’ll be fightin’ over who gets a wheel you make, tryin’ to get one touched by the Gods.”

       Hammerhead grinned, knocking a massive fist on his own metal-plated skull. “Boys’ll be linin’ up to get luck from _yer_ chrome now before a raid. It’ll give me a break fer once!” He glanced upward towards his Polecat, who was now hanging down from the pipes by his knees, holding out his empty bowl for Hammerhead to take. The thin Polecat was gazing so intently at Z’s back that he started to feel a tingle in his spine; something about his stare stood out above all the others - who were looking him over like a fresh kill.

       “Bet you can’t even spell it,” Snick muttered, ripping at a thick chunk of meat with his teeth as he stared at his own fingers. “Not that you could spell your name before now, anyway.”

       Garg didn’t need to show his thoughts on the topic at all, given that he’d already shown Z several ideas for something to etch into the metal. Z wasn’t surprised when he pulled another thin scrap of inked leather out of his pocket and handed it to him. This one depicted an open-mouthed viper, whose coils stretched out across each of the largest patches of metal. Its body was subtly scaled with a Norse knotwork pattern.

       “How you expect me to choose?” Z asked, smiling his appreciation. He held onto the leather, not wanting to open his pockets and reveal his treasures. Everyone settled back down into their seats as Z turned back around to face them. “Anyone seen Ripper?”

       Snick rolled his eyes.

       “Not since we were in the bays,” Haki said with a shrug.

       Beside Snick, Garg put his arms over top of each other and dropped his forehead to meet them.

       Z wasn’t too great at interpreting Garg’s sign language, but it was hard to misinterpret a sign for sleep. Even if it didn’t mean sleep, it at least meant she was in or near her bunk. “Not long ago?”

       Garg nodded, then drained the last bit of his stew. His half-tongue darted out to lick up the last bits of broth from the bowl. Z was fairly certain he was the only one of them all who could not only stand eating the same thing for dinner for weeks at a time, but still enjoy it after two decades of near-constant, bland, unchanging Roo Stew.

       Z grunted an acknowledgement before turning away from the group again and heading towards the bunks. Behind him, Haki picked up his story as though he hadn’t been interrupted – like he’d planned Z’s appearance all along.

       “There was chaos – half of us running toward the explosion, half running away with burns and fresh dripping wounds…”

       The Bunks were starting to clear out when Z reached the hall where his brother and Garg shared their bed. Theirs was at the top of a stack of five beds carved out of the stone, hidden under a thin window. He stared upward to the one beneath it, but couldn’t tell if Ripper was in her bunk or not. No sounds drifted down, but the clomp of boots against stone as Warboys trudged out for dinner made it hard to tell if they were there and he just wasn’t hearing them.

       “You up there?” he asked, glancing around. The room was empty save for a few Warboys asleep across the room, presumably night-guards that would be getting up in a few hours.

       No answer.

       “Comin’ up,” he said, climbing up from one bunk to the next with practiced ease. As a Warpup he had always been on high bunks, and he preferred their relative privacy to those nearer the floor.  His own bunk with Haki was only on the mid-level, but it was better than either the lowest or second. Nobody wanted a second-level bunk; it gave the least privacy of all.

       As he stuck his head up past the top of the third bunk and into the fourth, he was greeted with the point of a machete aimed towards his face. Ripper was sitting cross-legged, facing the back wall of the bunk, holding the serrated blade out behind her blindly. “Name?” she demanded, tone flat as ever.

       “It’s me, Zed.”

       “Get in.” She brought the machete back next to her leg and dropped it. He realized, as she reached for a roll of cloth around her hips, that must have been in the middle of rewrapping her chest.

       “Can come back,” he offered, not wanting to intrude. The few Bloodgirls within the Warboy ranks were treated relatively the same as any other Warboys, but typically were afforded an extra grain of privacy if they proved themselves dangerous enough. Ripper was _more_ than dangerous enough, and she didn’t _need_ to prove it.

       “In,” she repeated, wrapping the black cloth tightly around her.

       He didn’t wait to be told a third time. Z sat down carefully to avoid crushing any of the pocketed greens. He left a reasonable distance between them, just in case she wasn’t happy with him in the end after all.

       “You get it?”

       “Mn,” Z grunted. “West High-Point’s worked by your top-bunk tonight. Quietest you’ll find.” The tower point was in a relatively disused section of their, the second, spire. Though there were no places that were ever completely empty, there were places where friends could casually not mention goings-on. Garg was probably the closest thing Ripper had to a real friend, and though Snick couldn’t stand her he wouldn’t say anything to upset his Lancer.

       Ripper huffed out a short laugh. “Long walk.” She reached the end of the roll and pulled the two loose ends towards each other over her spine, wrapping them around the rest of the binding. “Tie this. Double knot.”

       He hesitated only briefly before reaching forward and tying a tight knot in the fabric. When he finished, she exhaled as deeply as she could, pulled the whole band down, and then flipped it over and re-settled it so that the knot was hidden.

       Having finished, she turned around to face him. “Your brother won’t be happy to see me.”

       Z shrugged. It wasn’t his problem; she’d only asked for quiet. He reached into his pockets and emptied two out into the space between them. A fistful of string beans, a few fat spinach leaves, two long carrots he'd snapped in half to fit his pocket, a small onion, and half an ear of sweet corn.

       She picked up the half-ear of corn and raised an eyebrow. "Get hungry on the way through the mess?"

       “Some of the crops are getting beetle-damage,” he said, a truth, though it wasn’t at all an answer to her real question. He didn't feel the need to tell her the other half was in a different pocket, quite whole and undamaged. From another pocket he pulled out a small rag and set it beside the pile, unwrapping it to reveal a little stash of cherries and grapes. "Grapes are doing really well right now," Z said, lowering his voice. "New kid fucked up his sprays and overgrew them, but no peaches now."

       Ripper snorted, snatching the pile away and tucking it into her pocket. Fruit was normally even harder to get than vegetables, the tiny pile easily worth many times more than all the vegetables he'd acquired combined - even including the ones he kept for himself.

       "Good haul. You pulled through. I'm impressed." Ripper leaned back, munching on a spinach leaf. “Not entirely what I asked for, but still a good trade.” To his surprise, she was almost grinning. He hadn’t been entirely sure she knew how to form any expression beyond a snarl or a grimace.

       Z took it as his queue to leave. "Connections," he said, not wanting to let on he was pleased by her praise. He swung his legs back over the edge of the bunk to climb down. "Sunset," he reminded her, with a glance to the window. It wouldn’t be long now, the sky’s blue was beginning to fade into gold. Then, when she nodded, he climbed back down to go find his own bunk a few rooms away. With luck, the smaller room would be empty entirely - then he could enjoy his hard-earned food prize as well. But as he reached the floor, another angry face greeted him, glowering at him eye-to-eye.

       "Stay the fuck out of my bed," he growled, crashing their heads together and pushing Z towards the hallway. Z pushed back just as hard. "Wasn't in your bed. Was in Ripper's," he said with a grin, knowing the two shared the bunk. Peck wasn't exactly a weakling, not even close, but Z would rather face him in a fight than her. The Lancer took a step back and hissed at him, his mouth open wide to reveal filed, red-stained teeth - a new addition to his body mods since Z had been stuck in the Chop Shop.

       Seconds later, Ripper jumped down from their bunk, landing beside the pair on the ground. "Later, fuckwad," she said with a glance to Peck, not bothering to stop as she moved towards the hall. Peck hissed at her too, moving to follow her. Just as he lunged for her, she sidestepped and sent him crashing to the floor, throwing him forward with her hand on his back. He snarled and flipped over, but a harsh stare and a boot on his chest made him rethink the idea of retaliating.

       Ripper stepped back and pulled her Lancer to his feet. Wordlessly, Peck stalked back towards his bunk. He gave Z another quiet hiss as he passed, but otherwise didn’t make a move against him. Z couldn’t help but smirk; there didn’t seem to be any question who had turned out to be the dominant one between the two aggressive Warboys. Even though Peck was at least five years older than her, it seemed Ripper could easily hold her own against him. Their first few months working together had been particularly violent, but Ripper came out of it with less scars – and a larger percentage of ears.

       She stared up at towards the bunk where Peck was quietly sulking, shaking her head. With a quick glance to Z, she rolled her eyes, and set off down the hall.

       Z followed her, though only because the only way to get anywhere from the bunks was through the mess hall. As she made her way, presumably, for the tower, Z went straight for his own bunk at the other end of the hall.

       The majority of the bunks were set up in batches five beds high and any number along the wall, with the rooms encircling the mess hall. It, like the repair bays and atrium below and garages above, had a very high ceiling filled in with pipes and storage. While the occasional Polecat or Warpup could sometimes be spotted climbing above, the ceilings were usually only populated by Chip-Blocks, Wire-Rats, Brown-Boots, and anyone else that maintained the spires’ structure. During meals, these workers would usually be found doing fast maintenance work in areas that were normally too crowded to work on during the day. Once dinner ended for the Warboys, they would go down into the mess hall and have breakfast before spending the rest of the night working.

       In Z's bunk room, there had been a few fat black wires hanging limp in the far corner for months. Eventually, a Wire-Rat was going to come work on it - which would help Z sleep properly again as the sparks had a habit of waking him - but he hoped that it wouldn't be the one day he wanted to be entirely alone in his bunk during dinner. He peered up towards the pipes, glancing along their length in every direction before entering his bunk room, having spotted none.

       Z scrambled up into his bed and pushed himself as far back into the corner as he could, curled in on himself and faced the corner. His shoulder revolted in sharp spasms, but the wants of his stomach overrode the pain. He pulled the thin blanked up against himself to muffle the noise, and pulled his remaining stash from his pocket. He’d given most of it to Ripper, but the other half of the ear of corn was all his. With it he’d smuggled in a few little pieces of carrot and some leafy thing he wasn’t sure he recognized.

       He shoved half of the carrot into his mouth and savored the crunch as best he could while trying to keep it silent. It reminded him of the first time he’d told Haki he could get vegetables.

_“Hah! Food for lizards and rats. Do you think they serve salads in Valhalla?”_

       No, Haki did not eat green things, save for ones with legs or tails. It had meant that moments like these, tucked away in an empty space, could be spent without fear of later guilt. If Z wanted, he could get them once a week and Haki would only laugh – if he even found out at all. Most of the time Z didn’t bother to tell him.

       He popped a few pieces of the greens into his mouth, trying to ignore the cold sweat building on his brow. They were bitter; not entirely unenjoyable but not something he’d reach for a second time. Still, to turn down anything was unheard of. Such foods were luxuries – though some more than others.

       Corn was the closest thing to fruit that was still something Z could easily obtain under normal circumstances. It was sweet, juicy, satisfying; Cel always made sure to set aside an ear or two for him every time a crop was harvested. The Green Thumb loved to please him, and Z didn’t mind being lavished upon by the skinny little grower. If it wasn’t for Z, the boy would only be doting on some other Warboy for their attention and protection, and Cel was good at what he did. Z was equally as good at decking Warboys in the face if they posed a threat. It was a good deal for them both, and a kind that was not unheard of.

       Z took his knife from his belt and shaved off one side of the corncob. It was nowhere near as satisfying to eat the tiny golden kernels out of his palm as it was to tear them away from the cob with his teeth, but it wasn’t quite as loud. He could hear the clomping of boots again, and that meant dinner was close to over. There was no time to play around. Despite his shaky breath, his hands stayed steady. His skin felt cold all over, tingling against the rough stone.

       His shoulder began to throb in rhythm with his heartbeat, hard enough that he couldn’t ignore it any longer. With a grimace he shifted his weight onto his other arm, glancing around only to see two grey eyes staring at him. Z didn’t jump, his training as a Lancer had taught him that jump-scares could be deadly, but a rush of adrenaline flooded his chest. The Polecat from earlier, Gecko, was hanging down from the pipes watching him. There was no reason to try to hide now, Z had no idea how long the Polecat had been watching him. He sliced off more of the corn with slow, precise movements, not taking his eyes off him.

       When he looked down to shove the food into his mouth, Gecko disappeared.

       Z strained his ears, clamping his eyes shut tight, but he couldn’t hear a thing over the clattering of dishes and the stomping of boots. He quickly finished his meal, keeping a wary eye out just in case Gecko came back. There was something unsettling about his eyes – and the fact that he could move so silently while everyone else only thudded.


End file.
